


the weight of water

by Phierie



Series: Phierie's Stephen Strange Bingo 2019 [3]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Grief/Mourning, Heavy Angst, Hopeful Ending, Hurt Stephen Strange, M/M, One Shot, Post-Endgame, Stephen Strange-centric, Survivor Guilt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-18
Updated: 2019-08-18
Packaged: 2020-09-06 20:22:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,197
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20297410
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Phierie/pseuds/Phierie
Summary: Stephen remembers, from across the battlefield, the look on Tony Stark’s face as he lifts a single shaking finger.Every time he closes his eyes – he sees that face, feels the weight of water.





	the weight of water

**Author's Note:**

> Back with another fic!! For the Stephen Strange Bingo prompt 'Angst'; that and the tags should tell you all you need to know about this beast. 
> 
> Some disclaimers: I've only seen Endgame once when it first came out and the first couple of scenes of this were written a while back, so they might not be canon accurate down to the very last detail depending on my memory. Also I'm not considering the end-of-battle deleted scene that was released recently canon here, since I wrote the first scenes way before that was released!!
> 
> I should maybe also mention that while there IS ironstrange content in this one it's a. not much for obvious canon reasons and b. not wholly the focus of this fic. If you're still here after all of that, enjoy!

I cherish my loss

A gentle reminder that _life is unkind at the best of times_

Adieu – Enter Shikari

Stephen remembers it all – the overwhelming smell of ash punctuated by gas and gore; a sky lit by the red glow of firelight split in two by the alien ship above them. A sky fractured as if it could fall on them at any moment. The roar of the alien creatures; the noise of the fight.

The weight of the freezing water around his feet and shins.

Stephen remembers, from across the battlefield, the look on Tony Stark’s face as he lifts a single shaking finger.

As if he had used the time stone he no longer wields to freeze eternity in that single moment, to suffocate all other thought and capture it in resin in his mind.

Every time he closes his eyes – he sees that face, feels the weight of water.

\--

It’s a beautiful day.

Sunlight dripping through the cracks in the clouds reflects off the lake in tones of gold and silver. Stephen wishes the still water would rise up the lakeside and take him under, too.

It’s not as bad as he thought it would be, honestly. He finds he doesn’t feel much of anything at all. Fitting, really, for the silent chessmaster; the emotionless tactician. He wears the character well.

(The sight stirs an old memory: another lake, another life. He pushes that down as far as it can go – tries to still the nausea at the thought, tramples it underfoot in his mind until it’s unrecognisable and detached from himself.

It still holds on by a thread. Gods, he doesn’t want to be here.)

Some of the people on the pier turn and start walking back to the house in a cue to everyone else. Pepper passes next to Stephen and he averts his gaze to the ground.

Stephen can’t bring himself to go in, but thankfully some of the others are still mulling around outside as well. Wong gently touches his elbow and mutters something about meeting him in a bit.

When Stephen glances up he meets the eyes of Peter Parker across the lawn. His are rimmed in red; he’s obviously been crying. Even now there’s a fondness at the sight of Peter, but it’s poisoned with pain and feels something like déjà vu. Years and years unlived flood the mind, and memories of the orange sky of Titan, and so many permutations of that fight when they still thought they had a chance.

(And another, more visceral memory: _Peter on the last battlefield; he grabs the gauntlet not far from Stephen; something changes in his expression as he looks over what once was the Avengers Compound. He puts on the gauntlet as Thanos’s blade pierces him from behind, skewering him like a kebab. Stephen thinks he shouts out something, he’s not sure, but the last thing he feels is the rush of cold water as he releases the spell to attack the Titan, and their universe ends._)

Peter takes a few steps forward and looks as if he’s bracing to say something. His eyes flash with determination - but he hesitates. Whatever words he’s thinking hang unsaid in the space between them.

“Doctor Strange,” Peter only greets with a forced nod.

Stephen’s not sure why; perhaps it’s the look on his face that makes Peter falter. Even where he thought he was doing so well, but the kid is scarily perceptive.

Stephen nods back, not trusting his voice at the moment, and Peter steps away and up the stairs to the lake house. He glances back, just a second, but he’s too far away for Stephen to read his expression.

Whatever Peter was thinking, he’s probably justified in it. He’s the only one, after all, who was on Titan and knows just how far Stephen’s knowledge goes - of events come to pass and those never to do so. Save half the Guardians of the Galaxy of course, but their understanding of Earth and its heroes is a lot less detailed. 

He knows he should talk to Peter at some point. Or perhaps that’s only a part of him talking, that which is looking to absolve himself of the guilt he knows is his to bear, as if talking to Peter – _Tony’s protégé, after all_ – could help. It’s irresponsible and selfish, to put that weight onto Peter’s shoulders.

Stephen won’t say anything; it would be better if they never had to meet again.

He blinks himself back into the present – the spring afternoon is too bright, compared at least to the New York Sanctum – and finds a spot on the porch with a view of the lake, stands there in pretence of thought. A few people wander past every now and then; Stephen thinks he shares words with Rhodey but can’t remember what is said.

For what it’s worth, they leave him alone. Stephen is utterly out of place here, amongst the family and the friends and the old teammates – those who have known each other, fought and suffered together over the years. It feels like an intrusion into someplace he has no right in being; not sure those fourteen million futures count in the real world.

The only one who is openly hostile towards him is Wanda Maximoff, but he understands. She says nothing but when their eyes catch the look she holds is all he needs – full of grief and hate, desperately trying not to hold any individual to blame but struggling.

It’s a shame – the energy he feels from Wanda is raw, chaotic and lacking direction. Perhaps a month ago – _well, five years, isn’t it_ – he would have offered his advice, tried to get to know her. To be friends.

He’s not sure how much she knows, but he imagines the story of the events on Titan has been passed around enough. At her side is Clint, and his eyes tell a similar story.

Stephen can’t bring himself to say anything, now. But he doesn’t look away. A second passes and Wanda gives a curt nod, turns back to Clint, and perhaps there’s understanding. Either way, it doesn’t matter. It occurs to him that he hadn’t ever met Vision, or Natasha, and the thought makes him feel like his blood is turned to ice.

Stephen’s not sure how much more time passes from then. He feels a light touch on his sleeve and glances to his side to see Wong. Sees the other guests are leaving.

“I’ve already said our goodbyes,” Wong mutters quietly at him. Stephen nods; he won’t argue. He has no desire to see Tony’s family one last time, and he’s sure the feeling is mutual.

Wong opens a portal to the Sanctum’s kitchen and Stephen allows himself to be steered through. There’s some enormity of feeling in his chest right now, he has to strain to feel anything besides. He can barely trust his legs to move him, certainly not his voice to respond - everything feels wrong, foreign, as if there was a disconnection of his body and soul.

He’s not quite sure what it is that lies under the numbness and the stretching barriers he’s put up. Not sure he wants to poke that particular beast and find out.

He really just wants to run away somewhere and _forget_ – his study, somewhere far across the dimensional gulf, who knows – but he doesn’t, not just yet, thinking to humour Wong as much as he can. It’s the least he owes him for the past couple of days. Past couple of years.

Stephen walks to the counter and leans over it, and at the very least it’s something real, cold wood solid and firm beneath his hands which protest in a dull ache against the pressure. He glances up and watches the clock on the wall, and the thin hand moves at the rate it always does, once a second. Time moves on, as always.

“I’ll make tea,” Wong offers, voice cutting through the quiet. Stephen doesn’t think he’s moved from his position since they first walked back through the portal.

Stephen shakes his head almost imperceptibly. “I’m fine.”

“Stephen -” Wong begins, but cuts himself off. When he speaks again it’s with a much softer tone. “Are you alright?”

“I’m -” Stephen starts, and he can’t help the waver he hears in his own voice. He takes a deep breath. “I’m okay.”

And he’s not sure if it’s the truth or not – he’s here, he’s alive. The very definition of. Even if his heart feels like it’s being desiccated – what right does he have to not be? What right does he possibly have to be sad at the passing of a man he sent to his demise? He knew, he made it happen. What right does he have to grief, when faced with Tony’s fucking _family_; a four year old girl who will never see her father again because of him and his conscious decisions.

He could scream himself hoarse about how unfair it is, how if he could’ve taken Tony’s place he would’ve done, every time, in a heartbeat. He tried; those timelines never seemed to work out. In the present, the damage is done.

It’s done, and time moves on. It’s okay.

“You don’t really expect me to believe that.”

“Not now, Wong,” Stephen pleads weakly. “Not now.”

“Then we’ll talk later,” Wong promises, his voice so full of understanding Stephen doesn’t deserve.

“Maybe,” he tries to reply but the word catches in his throat as he chokes up, and the tears start falling and don’t stop. He gasps, blinks hard, droplets fall onto the wooden counter next to his hands, and when he feels Wong’s gentle touch on his shoulder it turns into full blown sobs, ugly and raw and not enough.

And then he’s bawling his eyes out sitting at the kitchen table, half leaning into Wong, dampening his shoulder with his tears. It’s one part grief and two parts guilt; it’s a wire stretched too tight that has finally snapped, and it fucking _hurts_, hurts worse than anything Stephen has felt before, maybe, seems it at least in the moment.

It’s not fair. Of course it’s not fucking okay.

It’s not fair and it never was, never will be, and Stephen thinks in this moment that there are no works of divine fate in the universe, no rhyme or reason to anything, because if there were some kind of karmic currency to stack up against a life, surely Tony would have been deserving of a happy ending.

When Stephen sleeps that night, it’s more than weight; he’s drowning.

\--

Stephen’s forgotten most of what he saw, looking into alternate realities with the time stone. He skipped through them all too quickly to be able to recall anything distinct, not now, a month passed.

The memories are not simply gone, just stored – somewhere deep enough in his subconscious that he knows they’re there but can’t pick them out one by one. Evolved into some mass of knowledge, constantly changing, never staying in one form too long.

Things have changed, of that much he is certain. Everything feels slightly wrong, like all the furniture in the Sanctum were moved five centimetres to the left, not quite right, but not damaging enough that it makes a difference in the grand scheme.

Like shadows following constantly at his back, but when he turns, they’re gone.

One gloomy afternoon Stephen is in the kitchen making tea. A hand wrapped around the lukewarm mug, holding it to his chest, a spoon in the other.

He taps the spoon against the side of the ceramic, and Tony is there, leaning against the counter a little further down and looking at Stephen.

He’s dressed in casual clothes, jeans and a tight t-shirt over which the nanobot housing sits, one of Stephen’s threadbare oversized cardigans. It seems even larger on Tony, emphasising his small stature in a way that is quite endearing. In his hand is a mug as well, the ridiculously tatty cat print one that Stephen refuses to use himself that originates from the thrift store down the road - as do most of them, must be at least a few decades old.

Tony is saying something, his expression relaxed and amicable and eyes searching as if asking for input. Stephen can’t remember what he says.

Because it’s a memory – not a ghost, nor a hallucination – well, maybe a little bit of the latter as well.

Stephen’s mug slips out of his weak grip; the crash as it hits the floor shocks him out of the memory, and he has to lean against the counter to stay upright as the world spins around him, and for a moment everything is not_ quite_ right, not quite real, and then the nausea overtakes him and he finds himself heaving up stomach bile into the kitchen sink.

It happens more often than he would admit, not to Wong, not to anyone. And it’s not just Tony, though he features prominently – some kind of sick reminder that in a different timeline, they would have been friends. Maybe even something more.

The smallest things jog the memory: the sound of a teenager laughing at his friend opposite Stephen on the pavement; the smell of coffee; the way the column of sunlight from the window catches the dust motes hanging in the air in Stephen’s bedroom, late morning. The copper taste of blood on his lips.

It’s something like a heightened feeling of déjà vu, often enough that it’s noticeable, but still manageable enough that Stephen can push the memories away before they manifest, usually. After a while he just gets used to it - like another tremor, it’s all baseline noise.

What’s worse is the dreams.

He dreams of Titan, so often the orange sky and the ruined, ancient cities are ingrained in his mind, so often that he can close his eyes and feel the slightest breeze on his face, taste the musty, faintly metallic scent in the air.

He dreams of death after death in a battle that never had a good ending, really – kneeling alone amongst the bodies of his allies – Peter’s limbs bent in ways that even his shouldn’t ever be, Tony’s lifeless eyes staring up at him unblinking, the blade that he took in Stephen’s place still poking out of his chest where it was jammed through ruined scarlet armour.

He dreams of a dark hallway at the end of the world – maybe a ship in the outer reaches of the galaxy, maybe on earth, it hardly matters – and him and Tony are arguing, and then they’re kissing, and it’s less romantic than it is desperate, something tipping over the edge that’s been teetering far too long.

Stephen stops caring, stops calculating and playing the damn _game_ for long enough that he doesn’t even feel embarrassed when he moans into Tony’s mouth, his shuddering body pressed tight between Tony’s and the hard wall behind him.

It’s good and it’s probably stupid, but their ends both come soon in this timeline, so there’s little time for regrets.

He dreams of Tony, in a different time, his hair backlit by the sunset over the lake in a fiery halo of orange and pink. His smile as he ruffles Morgan’s hair, the little girl protesting, is enough to compete with the sun and all the stars, and Stephen can imagine the sound of his laugh without having to hear it - he knows it, has heard it not nearly enough but enough for him to engrave it on his memory - and Stephen’s heart aches in ways he never knew possible.

He dreams of a sky turned to black and a fortress reduced to ruin, and the way time had overlapped, back on itself and back again, and the flash of bright light as Tony snaps his fingers, infinity stones shining with all the secrets of the universe. And always, the same weight of water that keeps Stephen frozen in place, wind cold against his screaming hands, able only to watch from afar the last moments of the man he had come to love, in some transcendental, unquantifiable way, a love little more than a memory itself.

(He tries not to dream, if he can avoid it.)

\--

It’s raining hard, water streaming down the library windows and blurring the grey city skyline.

Stephen watches from one of the large armchairs next to the window. Diffuse light streams through the glass and plays in patterns over the tome sitting on his lap, in contrast to the dark wood and gloom of the Sanctum. He shivers and the cloak draws a little closer around him on instinct. A glance over his shoulder sees Wong still sat at the desk in the centre of the room.

Wong spent most of his time in Kamar-Taj, back in the early days of the after when everything was still a mess but seems to be visiting more frequently as the weeks pass. Despite the five years, their friendship continued almost exactly where it left off, and it’s one constant Stephen is deeply grateful for. He can just about pretend they’re back to normal, like how things were before, but then inevitably he remembers everything and the fantasy comes crashing down.

Wong doesn’t push, and rarely brings up what happened, and it reminds Stephen of their slow start after the Dormammu incident and all_ that_ entailed – though it feels this time like Wong is walking on eggshells around him a little more.

Stephen sighs and shuts the book, leaving it on the low table in front of the chair – he can’t seem to concentrate, today – and rises on numb legs to walk over.

Wong glances up from the books and papers scattered around him with a slight raise of an eyebrow. His expression turns serious once he takes in Stephen’s expression.

“Wong. Tell me about when I was gone.” Stephen’s voice cutting through the silence of the library is too loud, too present in his own chest. “Those five years.”

Wong fixes him with a hard look, but the edges of his gaze soften in sadness the longer he looks at Stephen.

“How would it benefit you?” he asks quietly. “If I told you.”

“Tell me,” Stephen repeats, voice low and rough and scratching out his throat. “Please.”

A few strained seconds pass, and Stephen feels for certain that Wong is going to say no. But he sighs, glances down at the book beneath his fingers and gently closes it. “Alright,” he mutters after a moment of indecision. “I’ll make tea. Come.”

They sit together at the kitchen table, a space comforting in its familiarity. The day outside may still be dark and unforgiving but the Sanctum’s kitchen is bathed in warm light, soaked up by the large wooden table and the rustic old countertops, mismatched tableware and china lining the shelves; it’s a lot more homely than the rest of the Sanctum, Stephen has always thought.

Wong pours out two cups of tea from the teapot he favours, something herbal and bitter, and Stephen thinks perhaps today he’s stalling for time. He sits opposite Stephen and looks over.

“What is it you want to know?” Wong asks.

“Everything,” Stephen answers in a voice that is only slightly numb. “As much as you know.”

Day bleeds out into night by the time Stephen is finished asking questions, and Wong is finished talking: about the effects of the snap, the in between years – the destroyed buildings and broken families and deserted apartments; the initial panic, the riots and rations, the governments and communities scrambling for some sense of control and appeasement, all the while the constant threat of the _something_ with the power to wipe out entire planets at a whim hung over the world in a shadow of fear and despair.

They learnt his name, eventually, in a press conference given by the remaining Avengers and some government officials, a video played on repeat across the world where the electricity worked and televised broadcasting was back up. The Avengers assured the populace they did all they could, and that he was dead, this _Thanos._ But there was no way to undo what was done, and that was that.

Many blamed the Avengers, for want of someone to blame, and one by one they dropped off the radar and the air waves. Some heralded them as heroes still, and never gave up hope – blindly clinging to something to believe in. Miracles happened before, when aliens rained from the sky onto the streets of New York, why not now?

Wong’s knowledge only goes so far and pertains mainly to the workings of Kamar-Taj and the order, as Stephen expected. The desperate rush to fortify and defend, as much as possible, as while humanity was halved the interdimensional threats stayed their number - a number that only grew after the energies at the core of their universe were shaken by the use of the infinity stones.

Long days, weeks, without rest; the empty spaces that once were.

And the talk – of the new master, favoured by The Ancient One, the hero who faced down Dormammu, failed in his duty to protect the time stone. Presumed dead on some alien ship or far-flung planet; they grieved for him, Wongs says, along with all the others. Thought he must have done all he could and fought to the bitter end.

When the truth of the matter came to light, some branded him a traitor, a heretic. Perhaps Master Mordo was right after all, two years ago, that no one man should be allowed the responsibility of such power.

Stephen’s glad to hear he had the majority’s favour, at least. And in the end, it was moot – Stephen Strange died along with half the population of the universe.

“I always suspected,” Wong mutters, examining his teacup. “It’s how I managed to convince the others – most of them, at least. I was sure you had a plan; that you wouldn’t have willingly given up the time stone if not for a reason. And that you would certainly only have done so if you had no other choice.”

“I swear,” Stephen begins; his voice cracks. “I swear by the gods, on my life, it’s true. There wasn’t…”

“I believe you,” Wong says plainly, and picks up the teacups as he stands from the table. Not a hint of distrust, not a shadow of doubt.

After a beat Stephen murmurs in reply, “right.”

“There is one more thing,” Wong continues as he deposits the cups on the draining board and turns back to Stephen. His expression remains impassive as ever, but Stephen thinks he picks up a hint of hesitation.

(Wong’s barely changed over the five years, Stephen thinks. Except that he’s maybe a little more serious, if that’s even possible, seems to have a bigger weight of responsibility on his shoulders that wasn’t there before. It distils in Stephen’s heart a slight sadness and twists his gut with guilt.)

“It was him. Stark,” Wong states. “He came here, not long after… he told me what happened on Titan. It’s how we knew.”

Stephen shuts his eyes tight. He forces his palms together, focuses on the ache in his fingers as the initial flood subsides. Figures, really; how else would they have known. Stephen had guessed it was something like that, but Wong’s never brought it up before now.

“I wasn’t sure if I should tell you,” Wong mutters, as if reading his thoughts, and he sits down again. “And you never asked.”

At that Stephen scoffs quietly. Of course he wouldn’t ask. He tries not to allow himself the privilege of thinking about Tony in a neutral capacity, let alone anything more. He still can’t help his curiosity. “Did he…” he begins but cuts off when he realises he doesn’t know how to pose the question without seeming totally narcissistic.

“Ask after you?” Wong finishes for him. Stephen gives a tiny nod, eyes fixed firmly on the patterns in the wood below his hands; he can’t meet Wong’s eyes. “Oh, he had many choice things to say about you.”

“I can imagine.”

“But, yes. He wanted to know why you exchanged the time stone for his life. I told him I didn’t have the answer for that. He also told me about your use of the time stone to view the possible futures.”

Stephen glances up a fraction. Wong says nothing more on the matter of the time stone but from his stony expression Stephen can imagine the words running through his mind – _reckless, idiotic_. Besides the whole breaking-natural-law thing, there was a limit to how much one could push the mortal mind without descent into madness or death; they both know this, from the days spent researching the enigmatic infinity stones in centuries old tomes in the Kamar-Taj library, to nights Stephen would practise with the Eye of Agamotto.

The Time Stone needed a wielder – if Stephen was more of a romantic he might describe it as a _longing_, or at least that’s how it felt, whenever he opened the Eye and let the energy of the stone flood him, familiar in it’s depth and incomprehensibility. Stephen just leant into it. And somehow instinctively knew not to push too hard, lest something be lost that could never be fully recovered.

He’s damned lucky that didn’t happen, on Titan, as he pushed far beyond any limits he’d tested with the stone before. Well – perhaps lucky isn’t the right word. It was a calculated risk.

When Stephen doesn’t reply – he has nothing to add to that, really – Wong looks at him for a long moment. He eventually relents, with a sigh.

“I believe he already understood everything he needed to,” Wong says softly. “There was nothing more I could tell him.”

Stephen rests his elbows on the table and leans his forehead into shaking hands pressed together. “That there was no other way,” he mutters into his hands.

“Hm?”

Stephen shivers at his own words and feels the waning sun of Titan on his face. Sees Tony’s disbelieving eyes from across the battlefield, and gods, he is so, so sorry. “Nothing. Tony knew well the meaning of sacrifice,” he states in agreement of Wong’s words.

Tony was a man condemned, and on that last battlefield - it wrenches Stephen’s heart, but he had already accepted it. What he must have thought of Stephen in those last moments, if anything at all, bears not thinking.

“As do you.”

“It’s not the same.”

He suddenly gets up from his seat and starts pacing across the kitchen; there’s something inside him clawing at his throat to escape; an itch he can’t scratch whenever he thinks of Tony and all the words unsaid, both past and future.

“Even despite everything, I believe he was grateful, in a way,” Wong continues. Adds, gentler: “you saved his life, Stephen.”

“But I didn’t!” Stephen yells, and Wong doesn’t even blink. And gods, he wishes Wong would be angry; anything would be better than his quiet composure, as if he understands, or worse yet that he forgives Stephen for what he’s done. “I didn’t _save _anything!”

“You gave him time,” Wong says gently as he also stands. “Sometimes that is all we can ask for.”

Stephen barks out a laugh, bitter and painful. “And yet took it from half the universe. But still not enough,” he mutters.

“Stephen…”

“I’m sorry,” Stephen mumbles against the hand he presses over his mouth, and like that everything is too much. The room spins and the rest of his body seems to be shaking just as much as his hands, and yet this time there’s no overlapping timelines, no memories, no Tony to ask _why would you do that_, no Thanos to spear him in two like he damn well deserves, just reality,_ this_ reality, where Tony is still dead and he couldn’t do a fucking thing about it. “I… I’m sorry. I can’t…”

_Do this after all_, Stephen thinks, but the words aren’t there, and he turns away and stumbles out of the room.

\--

Stephen thinks sometimes of what Mordo told him.

_The bill comes due. _

Not that he ever really thought Mordo meant it _literally_, but even so - in a world so fluid and tangled, Stephen thought it would be impossible to tell whether something was a cause and effect of his actions or simply another random event of the universe.

He thinks he knows, now. The world saved from total destruction at the hand of Dormammu; of course there would be a _price_ to such an act. Perhaps it was never a coincidence that not two years after he saved the world using the time stone, an act in itself against the natural law of things, Thanos would come.

(A reckoning, as Mordo so eloquently put it. Stephen wonders if he’s content in the knowledge that he was right.)

The scales sought to rebalance themselves through five years of chaos. And maybe it really is over, now, after all the pain and suffering and sacrifice, but Stephen’s not so sure.

He’s kept up at night thinking, wondering what calamity he might have unleashed on the world this time, the cost of defeating Thanos once and for all. Not that they haven’t already paid enough. And for looking into those future timelines so brazenly – he’s worried he’s not done paying the price of that, either.

Where Stephen can he takes it unto himself – he loses sleep, his health deteriorates. Despite everything he keeps pushing and pushing the boundaries – takes on monsters alone he would’ve thought twice about before, tears through tomes in the most advanced sections of the Kamar-Taj library and learns new spells for every possible eventuality and then some. More knowledge, more power, more everything to plug the holes of his previous incompetence.

The burden of magic is a heavy one, but it’s a price he’ll gladly pay if it means he never has to watch anyone get hurt, _die_, because of him again. He can’t allow that.

There’s still that logical part of his mind that says realistically, it can’t all be because of him; it’s not his fault. There were simply too many factors at play, more than a simple game of black versus white.

But Stephen thinks of the way the time stone glowed between his fingers against the dusty backdrop of Titan, and knows, without shadow of a doubt, enough of it is.

Reality blurs into something indistinct the more time that passes. Alternate timelines seem tame in comparison to some of the dimensions Stephen witnesses, those that tilt on the edges of human comprehension and leave him with crawling skin and a feeling of deep, primal dread. The times in between it all when Stephen finally does crash from pure exhaustion, he doesn’t dream anymore.

But even now, in the empty spaces in between when there’s nothing else to distract him, he finds his mind always drifts back to that one particular memory. A falling sky and Tony Stark and the weight of water. It almost doesn’t hurt to think about now, doesn’t tear his heart to think about Tony and all the futures that never were. Instead it’s more like a numb feeling of guilt and a heavy responsibility.

He keeps that memory close, holds onto it like a mantra in his heart, a reminder: there is still work to be done yet on the road to absolution.

\--

“I’m sorry, by the way.”

Stephen’s words out of the blue catch Wong off guard; he stops, hands hovering over the back of Stephen’s shoulder where he’s patching up a particularly bad cut Stephen managed to get this afternoon. It’s maybe not the best moment to bring it up when Wong has a needle in his hand, but.

Wong gives something of a long-suffering sigh and continues his work. “Stay still,” he mutters, gently pushing Stephen’s head back with his other hand when Stephen tries to glance over his shoulder at him. Only once Stephen’s bandaged up and the first aid supplies neatly packed back away does he acknowledge Stephen’s words. Wong gives him a hard glance over; his expression turns to a frown.

“Sorry you decided you should fight a horde of interdimensional parasites on your own, or…?” he asks with an air that suggests he already knows the answer perfectly well.

“Well, that too,” Stephen says sheepishly. “But no, y’know… for everything.”

It sounds pathetic once he actually voices it, but the guilt is eating away at his insides worse every day; he has to say something.

Wong sits on the sofa next to Stephen. The foyer of the Sanctum is quiet and not even noise from the New York streets outside reaches the secluded corner where they sit. The world seems in that moment to balance on a precipice. Stephen shuts his eyes and continues.

“I’ve seen it on the others, too, those who weren’t… gone. That same look, the weight behind their eyes,” he says in a low voice. “I’m sorry I shirked so much responsibility onto you. I’m sorry things even got to that point, I should’ve…” Stephen shakes his head. Should’ve done more to protect the time stone, should’ve done a lot of things. None of it matters now.

Wong doesn’t reprimand, for once, and as such Stephen’s not quite sure what he’s thinking. “You put too much blame on yourself,” he mutters in reply.

“If I’m not to blame, why do I feel like this?” Stephen counters, lowering his gaze to his hands in front of him.

Wong shifts next to him. “Stephen – I haven’t said anything yet because I thought, in time…” he trails off. “You need to slow down. Give yourself time to heal. This path you’re on has no good end.”

The pain in his shoulder burns; _maybe that’s the point_, Stephen thinks. He sighs and rubs at his forehead with a weak hand. “You know what, just… forget I said anything. I think I’m just tired, overthinking things.” Stephen gets to his feet and winces as the motion shifts his injuries.

“Wait, Stephen,” Wong calls from behind him and Stephen glances back. “This may come as a surprise to you, but I do actually care a lot about you. Not just as a sorcerer, but as a friend.”

“Then you should understand,” Stephen says softly. “That I can’t just stop.”

“I know.” It’s quiet, resigned, and a sense of finality fills the air.

Stephen nods and turns away.

\--

The next day Stephen finds Wong in the second-floor hallway with a trunk at his feet and a duffel bag slung over his shoulder.

“Um, hi. What are you doing?” Stephen asks.

Wong glances up to meet Stephen’s questioning look, replying without a beat, “moving in.” Stephen splutters in surprise.

“You could at least have warned me in advance, no? This is sorta my house, you know.”

Wong scoffs and rolls his eyes. “You don’t pay rent.”

“Neither do you,” Stephen mutters. He rubs at his eyes to try to keep them open – it’s too early for this. Or late, maybe, considering he didn’t sleep a wink last night. Whatever.

“I hope it’s alright,” Wong says finally, but his tone suggests he doesn’t care much about Stephen’s opinion on the matter either way. “I was living here before, after all.”

It’s true, so maybe it shouldn’t come as too much of a shock. Wong moved in after the Hong Kong incident given that Stephen was a. not handling things particularly well and b. had no idea what he was doing running a Sanctum alone. The circumstances are rather different now though.

“I mean, yeah, it’s fine,” Stephen replies. “Just a bit… surprising, is all. What about your duties at Kamar-Taj?”

“My archival work can be done just as well from here. I’ve placed Master Yamamoto in charge of the day to day running of the library. She was quite pleased with her new position,” Wong explains, but it hardly answers Stephen’s questions.

“Wong,” Stephen begins; crossing his arms in front of him, he attempts to stare down his friend. “What’s this really about? If you want to stage an intervention, I’d rather you just say.”

Wong glances back, unfazed, but he doesn’t deny Stephen’s words either. “For one, I really do need a change of pace, and I believe the other Masters are just about capable of keeping the place from burning down without me. I’ve been running Kamar-Taj for five years, after all,” Wong states, light-heartedly, but the familiar tendrils of guilt worm around Stephen’s stomach nonetheless. “And secondly…” he stops to consider his words for a second, but shrugs. There’s no hint of pretence in his words; there never is. “If you’re going to continue with your work at the rate you are, you’re going to need help.”

“I…” Stephen begins, and finds he really has no words. A part of him demands he refuse Wong’s help - that he doesn’t need or more importantly _deserve_ it, and maybe that’s true – but Wong’s offer comes from a place of such thought and care that he couldn’t possibly say no. It occurs to him only now how much he’s missed Wong and their easy companionship, for all the walls he’s put up lately.

His friend is holding out that line, with not a hint of blame nor disdain for what Stephen has become, and gods, he’d be a damn fool not to take that step forward to meet him.

“I hope this arrangement is acceptable?” Wong asks once more.

“Of course,” Stephen mutters, feeling for the first time in a while that’s there’s more than just the abyss looking back at him. “Of course.”

\--

Under Wong’s wing the workings of the Sanctum are changed up drastically.

With the help of the few remaining Masters and apprentices the place just about held itself together during the five years of chaos – probably a bit better than the rest of the world, even. But the books and relics fell into disuse and disrepair and ended up scattered and disorganised. To Stephen when he returned, the whole place seemed to have taken on an air of neglect, and a pervasive melancholy filled the halls even more than before. 

Even the very magic of the Sanctum itself was dulled and weakened; a shadow of what it once was, an ancient city left to ruin. It’s only now the magic is beginning to flower once more, shifting through the halls and humming in the relics, and when Stephen opens his heart to listen he feels the frequencies of the dragon lines beneath the Earth, strong and true again. 

Wong employs some of the apprentices too, to help in the reorganisation of the library and relic chambers and to watch over the Sanctum when one or both of them are away. Oftentimes when Stephen finds himself in the same room as them, he’ll catch them staring.

One afternoon while Stephen is reading up on a particular form of sea-dwelling cosmic entities the apprentice – James, Stephen dimly recalls - shuffles over and with obvious trepidation asks him for help at learning a spell. Complex energy transmutation, and Stephen with surprise at the request conjures the necessary mandala and turns a piece of scrap parchment into a tiny butterfly.

They spend at least an hour talking through the spell, with Stephen correcting his form and helping with the energy manipulation. Stephen doesn’t think he does a very good job at explaining anything, but James is enthralled and thanks him repeatedly for his help when Stephen gets a summons from Wong and has to leave. He can’t be much older than late twenties, Stephen guesses, and briefly wonders what his story is. Everyone who finds Kamar-Taj has a story. It’s not his place to ask though, and he sets it aside in his mind.

Another day, Stephen is in the relic chamber returning an enchanted sword to its case when someone comes up behind him. Ashi, a new Master; she’s been watching over the Sanctum the past few days while Stephen has been occupied between worlds and Wong busy at Kamar-Taj.

“Is it true?” she asks suddenly, and Stephen freezes. His hands shake as he sets the sword down and turns to face her. She wavers slightly at his reaction, but continues nonetheless: “I was there, at the last battle against Thanos. Is it true you saw this future?”

Her expression is more curious than accusatory, despite her words. Stephen sighs slightly, glances downwards as he murmurs, “yes, it is true. I saw many alternate futures and sought to bring that which had the greatest chance of survival for the most people to come to pass.” The words are flat and unemotional like he’s reading them out of a textbook, detached from himself.

Ashi seems a little taken aback at his bluntness. “So then, you really…” she begins, but trails off.

“I made the hard call,” Stephen mutters, and his voice seems to echo one from a million futures on a deserted planet, so far and long ago now it seems as if a dream. “That’s all. Now if you’ll excuse me.” He doesn’t glance back as he rounds the top of the staircase and descends down the stairs, the light from the dying day filtering through the circular window and burning the wooden ground behind him.

Later that night his mind is filled with thoughts of prophets; martyrs and kings. And of those words he can’t forget, _the hardest choices require the strongest wills_.

Stephen wonders if his will has been strong enough – clearly, since he’s still here, strong enough to compete with monsters.

\--

A few days later, Wong requests Stephen meet him at Kamar-Taj. Stephen drops by slightly early and after a word to Master Yamamoto in the library finds him in the central courtyard, teaching a class with a couple of the other Masters. Stephen wonders when they picked up all the new students – there must be at least thirty apprentices.

Portals, of all things. Thirty odd swirls of golden sparks, in varying degrees of success, fill the crisp afternoon air with light and the familiar soft sound of sparking a match to light. The nostalgia that permeates the air is tangible; Stephen stands off to the side under the shrouded cloister and tries not to watch too closely.

After Wong is finished with his class, he draws up next to Stephen, watching the apprentices disperse across the courtyard.

“Maybe you should think about teaching sometime,” Wong says, an unspoken weight to his words.

Stephen narrows his eyes incredulously. “I don’t think I’d be a very good teacher.”

“You never know,” Wong replies, shrugging, “you might surprise yourself. They’re all terrified of me, so you’re already the favourite.”

Stephen laughs. “As well they should be,” he murmurs, and glances to Wong with a small grin.

“Come. Let’s walk.”

Wong leads Stephen through the halls of Kamar-Taj into another, smaller courtyard with a shrine at it’s centre. Stephen recalls having walked through a few times, remembers the brightly coloured chimes and ribbons dangling from the wooden rafters surrounding the open space.

He’s never examined the shine closely though – it’s carved grey stone, with a space for leaving offerings, decorated in thick rope and more coloured streamers and hanging knots of ribbon. At the centre, dominating and eye-catching, there are the circular symbols of the Vishanti. When he looks closer at the stone relief, he sees there are even more carvings: some vaguely humanoid; a tiger’s head; lines of text in characters he doesn’t even recognise.

The clouding scent of burning incense fills the air even more here, fiercely nostalgic, so strongly associated to Kamar-Taj as it is. A few sticks sit gently smouldering in the bowl of sand carved into the stone.

Stephen watches Wong as he picks an incense stick from the shelf at the entrance to the courtyard and places it in the bowl next to the others. It lights without help, and Stephen swears he sees the shape of a sigil in the yellow glow that in a second fades to nothing.

“It’s a shrine to the Vishanti,” Wong explains, watching the tiny plume of smoke rising from the incense. “One of the last.”

“The Gods?”

“Of a sort. In the early days of Kamar-Taj, the sorcerers cared more for this sort of thing… it makes little difference to Them, apparently, but old habits.”

An inexplicable sense of unease fills Stephen the longer he watches. “What did you want to talk about?” he asks to change the subject.

Wong’s eyes flit over him. “You know the order has been without a Sorcerer Supreme for some time. There’s been talk – some of the other Masters are in favour of appointing one anew. Especially in these turbulent times.”

“Ah. And what of it?” Stephen asks slowly, though he thinks he already knows where this is going.

“They want to pick you,” Wong replies, and looks over to meet Stephen’s eyes. “And I am in agreement.”

“You think I would be a wise choice?”

“I know that you have saved the world from ruin, multiple times. I know you have a pure heart and a strong moral compass. You have saved far more than you have destroyed, Stephen. I know this.”

The sincerity of Wong’s words almost leaves him speechless, and Stephen wants more than anything to believe them. Objectively, he can understand why they might choose him for such a position. And not only is it his power and talent for the mystic arts; he has no family, few who would miss him.

“You also know of my propensity for arrogance,” Stephen begins, slowly. “It destroyed only my own life the first time, but it also led to… all this. What happens the next time?”

Wong looks down; he doesn’t answer.

“You seem hesitant yourself,” Stephen notes.

“Not about that. I don’t want to lose you again, Stephen,” he admits, looking up. “I worry that this is a step too far, but yet I know it isn’t. You’re the only one capable of this.”

Stephen still feels unconvinced. “I very much doubt I can fill The Ancient One’s place.”

“No one expects you to. At any rate, you don’t have to give me an answer yet. Just think on it.”

“Alright. I will,” Stephen says, though he thinks he has already come to his decision. Now more than ever he feels his calling is here, with the mystic arts, and perhaps always has been. It’s a lot of responsibility, but amongst everything else, he’s honoured that the other Masters would entrust it to him. He won’t let them down again.

Wong nods at his side. “No matter what your decision, Stephen, know that I am with you. Now come, let’s go back inside.”

As Wong shifts to move next to him, Stephen thinks on the past five years. It feels there is so much he is missing, and the world around him feels so changed. But despite the losses, it is healing.

His thoughts shift to Tony. Stephen still thinks of him, all the time; the world is a constant reminder.

In his line of work both in the present and the past, there’s always been the ones he couldn’t save. Illogical though it may be, Stephen still regards them as personal failings. None more so than the world’s most recent loss.

Perhaps it’s the only thing that gives him the strength to move forward – that sense of responsibility, guilt, to not make the same mistakes. It’s not ideal, but it’s all he has. The weight is not quite as paralyzing as before. 

A cold wind blows through the sheltered courtyard and the air fills with the soft music of the wind chimes dangling from the rafters. The sky above is covered in thick clouds of a light grey and signals a coming snowfall.

The summer turned so easily into winter, as it always does, and seems at times that it would last forever. But time speaks only the truth these days, and spring will surely come around again. The courtyards and gardens at Kamar-Taj will fill with flowers and light, and warmth will return to the Sanctum in the West.

Wong walks back through the courtyard the way they came to the open doorway. He stops and turns back to Stephen; the red and blue ribbons hanging from the beams above his head flutter in the wind like fire and butterflies. “Come on,” Wong mutters to him with an air of impatience, “it’s cold out.”

Stephen smiles despite himself. The winter will end, and he thinks he’d very much like to see the spring come in, not alone this time. It doesn’t seem like Wong is going anywhere anytime soon. He thinks he can learn to lean on others just a little more.

“Right behind you.”

Stephen may not wield the time stone anymore, but he knows as well as anyone, there is no way to change the past. The only way to move is forward.

**Author's Note:**

> I remember coming out of the cinema after seeing endgame unsurprisingly thinking, 'okay, but what about Stephen??!' so yknow, naturally this fic had to happen. I didn't think it would be fair or possible to fully resolve everything in one (relatively) short fic, but I tried to touch on as much as possible. I hope it was at least somewhat satisfying. 
> 
> Feel free to let me know what you thought in a comment, I would love to know!! And thanks so much for reading this far <3 Find me on [tumblr](https://phierie.tumblr.com/) for more bingo stuff and [twitter](https://twitter.com/phieriee)


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